


Within the Songs of Life

by Defying_Expectations



Category: Pendragon - D. J. MacHale
Genre: Almost Romance, Angst, Coming of Age, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, Idolization, Mentor/Protégé, Mentor/Sidekick, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:00:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28101321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defying_Expectations/pseuds/Defying_Expectations
Summary: "Her singing voice is not the most beautiful and lush voice to ever grace Quillan, but there is a certain purity, a certain quality to her voice that makes it pleasant and relaxing to hear. Not that anyone ever hears it. Nevva sings only for herself."Sometimes to escape the world, all Nevva Winter can do is close her eyes and sing.
Relationships: Saint Dane & Nevva Winter, Saint Dane/Nevva Winter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Within the Songs of Life

**A/N:** Posted originally on FFNet in '08. Inspired by the Livejournal fanfic50 prompt #39: song.

* * *

She sits there, just sits. She is supposed to be studying, but she knows all the information in these books already, so what would be the point? So instead she sits, her hands folded rather primly in her lap, her heart-shaped face turned towards the window. Her young, intelligent eyes gaze intently out at the sights beneath her, riveted to the surroundings. There isn't much for her to look at, but that does not stop her from looking. For Nevva always looks at everything, examines even the most mundane things from every angle she possibly can.

She's always being made to study, to learn. She loves knowledge, loves absorbing as much as she can with her brain, but occasionally she grows tired of being viewed as nothing more than a small, intelligent thing that should be stuffed with the words of these books. Does she not have more potential than this? Can she not do more for Quillan, for others, for herself? Why do her parents not understand that school isn't the only thing that is important to her, why do they slave away endlessly at their jobs just for her education? If they ever would spare a moment to speak with her, even a second, perhaps they would see that she is more than a genius, that she is a human girl who wants to know more than these books, that she is a caged spirit who wants to know the world.

She closes her eyes, and parts her lips as a gentle, quiet note of music escapes her lips. She lets out another soft pitch, and then another, slowly stringing together a low-sounding melody, that builds in volume as she goes on. At first they are just disjointed notes, some that she releases quickly, others that she holds onto longer and allows to carry through the air.

Her singing voice is not the most beautiful and lush voice to ever grace Quillan, but there is a certain purity, a certain quality to her voice that makes it pleasant and relaxing to hear. Not that anyone ever hears it. Nevva sings only for herself.

Singing soothes her, calms her. It makes her feel, just for those moments as she croons a tune, that all is right where she is, that all is well. So she sings on, drowning out the world. Her face is dream-like and serene, and she rests her head against the windowpane carefully, her eyes still closed.

Her notes soon turn to words. She sings a song she makes up on the spot, a song of wishes and dreams, of thinking and knowing, of illusions and games, of assuming and wondering, of truth and reality, of strength and daring, of dedication and loyalty, of longing and belonging. The words flow, pour, perhaps not smoothly and flawless, but they still gush truly and purely from her young, innocent soul.

"Nevva!" the voice calls from outside the door.

She stops her singing, opens her eyes. The dream is over. Reality has returned.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Your next tutor is in!"

Nevva draws back from the window, her eyes lingering regretfully for a brief moment as they stare, fixated, at nothing, at all she has never known, at all she still cannot see. Then she turns her attention towards the door.

"Send them in, then," says Nevva.

* * *

It grows tedious, working with these two clowns day after day, but what else can she do? This is where life has brought her, and this is what she now must do. The young girl who dreamed of brighter and bigger things still lingers within her, but, as always happens with age, that young girl has been silenced. Reality has sunken in, taken over, and now Nevva is a woman, one who certainly does not spend her time fantasizing and harmonizing about what else would lie outside of all this.

Weary, but determined not to show this, she treks back up the stairs to her tiny office, ready to continue on with her work. She sits down at her desk, but has trouble focusing on her work. It is not that she is too tired or sleepy to do the work, it is that she is too restless to do it. It has been a particularly trying day, with Veego barking endless orders right and left, and never giving the other female a scrap of respect, or even a simple 'thank you'. Not that this is unusual, this is always how it was. But routines such as these can start to become mentally exhausting after a point.

She decides to rest for a moment, and places her elbows against the desk surface, leaning her head against her hands and shutting her eyes, welcoming the darkness that envelopes her. She sits there, just sits, and she tries not to think; tries again to become that little girl she once knew, that she once was – the little girl who could escape the world, even if only for a few seconds.

And so she begins to sing, hesitant and soft. Her melodic voice is rusty and strained from disuse, and it is a different voice than she remembered: no longer is she the gentle soprano she was in the days of her early youth. Her voice is deeper, yet still sweet, and rich in its purity; still not perhaps the voice of a musical genius, but still a voice that is enchanting and pleasurable. As she becomes used to stroking the musical notes again with her throat, her volume lifts slightly. She sings a jumble of notes first, then gradually these notes turn into a lullaby, one that she did not even realize she still knew.

" _My heart is like a singing bird,"_ she vocalizes, " _whose nest is in a water shoot;_

_My heart is like an apple tree, whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;_

_My heart is like a rainbow shell, that paddles in a purple sea;_

_My heart is gladder than all these, because my love has come to me."_

She leans back in her chair, eyes still shut and unseeing to the world around her; and in that instant she is the young girl again, oblivious to the world around her, dreaming and hoping for a better tomorrow with the eternal hope and heart of youth.

" _Raise me a dais of silk and down;_

_Hang it with vairs and purples dyes;_

_Carve it in doves and pomegranates, and peacocks with a hundred eyes;_

_Work it in gold and silver grapes, in leaves and silver fleur-de-lys;_

_Because – "_

And for some reason that she cannot define – some sort of strange awareness – she suddenly has the feeling that she is not alone in the room. Her eyes fly open, and she spins half-way around in her chair to see a tall man she does not know standing there, watching her without any sort of expression on his face.

" _Because the birthday of my life,"_ he continues for her. His voice is soft yet sturdy as he sings the words, and she does not know whether to be cautious or accepting of him.

" _Is come, my love, is come to me,"_ they sing together, both very quietly, she very hesitantly.

She stands then, pushing her chair in and placing her arms straight at her sides. "I'm sorry, sir – I didn't hear you come in – I don't think we've met, have we? My name is – "

"I already know who you are, Nevva," the man says softly, smiling at her in a way that is both compelling and disconcerting. "I know all about you."

"Sir?" she says uncertainly.

"Do not be afraid, Nevva, I will explain everything. But first, allow me to introduce myself." He smiles at her again, and takes a step forward. "My name is Saint Dane."

* * *

She watches him for a moment, as he flies off into the clouds and enter the Convergence. She stands there, just stands, and then she transforms as well, taking flight, heading back towards Ibara.

She believes in his goals – _their goals,_ she thinks, reflecting back on their conversation from moments before, and content shivers slide down her back – believes in them more than anything she has ever believed in. Gone are the childhood daydreams and fantasies, and _here_ , here with him, is reality. She is doing all she ever hoped, all she ever pondered, all she ever wanted, and more. The optimistic, dreaming girl is gone; here is the woman who is living out a life beyond those silly dreams of the unknown.

Still, that's not to say the girl is dead. She still lives, deep within her, resting, waiting for those brief moments when she would be all that she has to fall back on, all that she wants. Because Nevva doesn't want to forget that girl entirely, however far she's come.

So as she soars back to the island, she opens her black beak, and sings. She is a raven, and ravens can speak no recognizable human tongue, but it is singing nonetheless; and the song lifts up and soars high across the brilliantly blue sky.

* * *

**A/N:** because I know I'm going to get comments on this if I don't address it now: how does Nevva know a lullaby from Second Earth before she's even started to Travel? Well, I'm sure that by this point Saint Dane has already been causing some chaos, even if Nevva was unaware of it at the time, and so why shouldn't some things from other territories have mixed? I, personally, find it very likely that the different territories are already more 'united' than we might think, even before Bobby Pendragon starts to mix them. :)


End file.
